Hard to Hold (True Romance)

by LETO, JULIE

  “Hudson Highlands State Park.”

  “I’ve been up there,” Anne said. “But thankfully, it was much drier when I went.”

  Mike warmed his insides with another sip of wine. “That was a rough night. It poured until I thought I might never be dry again, but the next day was so clear and sunny, I ended up sunburned on my neck.”

  “Not a good weekend, then,” she concluded.

  “Actually, it was. There’s something invigorating about pitting yourself against the elements. I love hiking and camping. You?”

  “Oddly enough, I do,” she answered. “I just don’t get many opportunities to go. I used to be a camp counselor when I was younger.”

  In between laughing at the antics on the television and talking about their childhoods, by the time midnight came around, they were sitting on the bed, polishing off the last of the Italian dessert wine—the mice long since devoured—and going through some of the pictures and scrapbooks Mike had accumulated. He showed her family stuff first, then high school and college and then, with a brief hesitation, he took out the one book that might make or break what he had going so far with Anne.

  Mike knew this was a risk, but she’d shared her obsession with 24 with him. It wouldn’t be fair to keep his own mania a secret, especially not something of this importance.

  “This one is about Phish,” he said.

  She eyed him, nonplussed. “You like to fish?”

  “No, the band. Phish. Have you heard of them?”

  Her expression was fairly unreadable as she scooted the scrapbook from his lap into hers. She opened the nondescript cover without a word, and then laughed at the sight of him in funky, hippie-style clothes he’d worn to a concert a couple of years ago. Tie-dye T-shirt. Baggy jeans. He hadn’t even shaved. That had been a kicking weekend. Personal hygiene had been secondary by far to enjoying the music.

  As she turned the pages, revealing more snapshots from the hundreds of concerts he’d attended over the years all over the country, the humor drained a bit from her face. He’d never seen a fake smile on her before—and it was neither convincing nor encouraging.

  “Wow,” she said. “You’re really into this band.”

  She’d reached the section where he’d pasted articles he’d cut from the newspapers about various shows. One page was a montage of boarding passes from flights, cancelled train tickets—even gas receipts. Funny, he’d had absolutely no trouble confessing to her about his Tourette’s, but coming clean about his obsession with the rock band, Phish, who had toured the country with a cadre of followers until their breakup in August of 2004, stopped him cold.

  “Have you ever heard them play?” he asked.

  She continued to turn pages, stopping to glance at the headlines. “I can’t say that I have.”

  “They started as a cover band, doing mostly Grateful Dead. But they emerged into their own and their style is, well, eclectic. The music is wild and the people are wilder.”

  She looked up, a half-smile teasing her lips. “I never would have pegged you for a Phish Phan. Never in a million years.”

  “Why not?” he asked, trying not to sound offended.

  With him, Phish wasn’t about the lifestyle, it was about the music. He also had a personal connection to the band, having not only met the band’s drummer, John Fishman, when he’d accompanied a high-school friend to an interview with the budding musician, but he’d traveled to concerts around the state with members of John’s family. He could still remember the moment he’d first heard the band play—the way the notes had dropped into his soul and challenged every preconceived notion he’d ever had about rhythms, lyrics, and even life. Along his travels, he’d met fascinating people, made lifelong friends with people who understood the soundtrack of his life.

  Anne had to at least understand this or she might not ever understand him.

  “I guess I never realized that people who travel around the world following an off-kilter band had, I don’t know, jobs and responsibilities.”

  “Now, you see,” he said, determined to keep his sense of humor. Anne wasn’t the first person to react with shock when he revealed his devotion to Phish. She certainly wasn’t going to be the last. “That’s a stereotype.”

  “Apparently. And one that I have contributed to,” she confessed. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  She turned the scrapbook on her lap so that he could read the page. The headline read, “Lure of Phish Powerful to the End.”

  And the byline read Anne Miller.

  Ten

  IF SHANE HAD WITNESSED THIS MOMENT, she would have said magic and fate had yet again come into play. What were the chances that Mike had not only read an article Anne had written about his favorite band, but that he’d also deemed it important enough to keep in one of his many scrapbooks?

  Trouble was, Anne remembered writing that article. While she’d given the whole Phish phenomenon a positive spin for the masses, the circumstances under which she’d taken the assignment had been less about any appreciation she’d had for the music and more about wanting to spice up what had been a really boring week.

  Prior to the concert report, she’d spent every moment the week before either in court or working on articles about teenagers breaking into cars for kicks and neighborhood disputes over noise levels. On top of having no time to breathe in an ounce of fresh air that hadn’t been sullied with cigarette smoke, she’d drawn the shortest stick and ended up with a Saturday shift.

  So when offered, she’d jumped at a chance to do a color piece on the invasion of Phish Phans on the Saratoga Performing Arts Center. The minute she’d met her first potential interviewee, she’d thought she’d slipped into a time warp and ended up on the wrong end of the 1970s. She couldn’t imagine Mike as part of that scene, yet there he was in picture after picture, holding a beer, wearing T-shirts with pithy sayings, and camping out in a tent on what looked like a parking lot.

  “Wait, you wrote that?”

  He took the article and read it out loud. His voice got louder when he reached the part that read, “But they also revolutionized the business, embracing the Internet, encouraging fans to trade tapes, and playing long, convoluted sets that captivated an audience bored by Top-40 hits. A three-day festival to mark the millennium in the Florida Everglades clogged highways all over the state—and remains, according to many fans, the pinnacle of the band’s career. “I was there!”

  “No kidding,” she said, trying to inject a little enthusiasm into her voice.

  She wasn’t sure why his fandom surprised her, except that she fully understood the breadth of what this meant. Phish Phans weren’t like ordinary music lovers. They were intense, proud and committed to the point of, well, fanaticism. She’d known a few Phish Phans and nothing drove them quite so mad as a chance to travel and commune with fellow devotees.

  Lucky for Anne—who wanted to spend more time with Mike, not less—the band had split up shortly after the Saratoga concert. It wasn’t like he was going to be road-tripping to see them again any time in her future.

  “You didn’t like them?” he asked, undeniably shocked.

  “I never actually heard the band that night,” she confessed. “My article was just about the fans and traffic congestion.”

  “Well,” he said, bestowing a slightly condescending smile on her that she decided not to take personally, lest it ruin the rest of their evening. “You did a great job. I can’t believe I have your article in my book. It’s w—”

  “Weird? Yeah,” she said, closing the scrapbook and covering her mouth with her hand to stifle a yawn.

  “Wow, it’s late,” he said. “I’m boring you with all these books. Let me walk you home.”

  “I’m not bored,” she said, and she meant it. She reached out and touched his hand and the honesty of her words seemed to relax him as if she’d just given him more wine. “I wish I had such well-preserved chronicles of my life to share with you. I have a half-dozen shoe boxes on shelves in my closet o
verflowing with random photographs and keepsakes, as well as a dusty stack of yearbooks, but their nonexistent organization might drive you crazy.”

  “You drive me crazy.” He tossed aside the book that was between them, and pulled her close. “If you can forgive the fact than I’m a Phish Phan, I can overlook that you’re not a pack rat like me.”

  “Always back to the rats,” she muttered, but he cut off her joke with a kiss that was infinitely sweeter than the wine—and undeniably hotter.

  Once again, Mike cued right into her body’s natural rhythms. He moved like she moved, wanted like she wanted. His kiss possessed the pressure of both uncertainty and need, a combination more heady than alcohol and more addictive than chocolate. He cupped her cheeks with his hands, and as the kiss deepened, his grip tightened, as if he was afraid to move his touch beyond the safety of her face.

  And yet, his longing seeped into her through his fingertips and caused a curl of arousal to sweep through her system. Beneath her blouse, her nipples tightened against her bra and her heartbeat accelerated. The mattress, so soft and inviting, dipped beneath them, but when she slid her hand down his arm, she could feel his muscles clenching to keep them upright.

  When they came up for air, he didn’t go far. He touched his forehead to hers. His breathing, labored and uneven, testified to a powerful want he only barely contained.

  “I think I’d better walk you home now.”

  “Yeah,” she managed, her mouth suddenly dry. “I think you’d better.”

  He took her hand. She stopped long enough to pet Sirus and grab the coat she’d worn on the walk, then they walked downstairs. The journey took no more than five minutes from the moment he’d pulled her off the bed to the second she’d unlocked her door. Maybe there was something to be said for long goodbyes.

  “What are you doing this weekend?” he asked.

  She turned, elated that he wanted to spend more time with her. “I have some work to do, but I was going to try to find someone to watch the Syracuse game with.”

  His eyes widened. “Basketball?”

  “Yes,” she said, with a mocking edge of outrage.

  His smile lit those dreamy blue eyes of his to such brightness, she was sure the residual shine was going to keep her up all night long.

  “Want to watch together?”

  She shoved her hands on her hips, disbelieving. From his scrapbooks, she’d learned that Michael played both baseball and football in his formative years, but she’d had no idea he was a basketball fan. “Really? You follow Syracuse?”

  “My father went to school there,” he explained. “I grew up on it.”

  Even after spending hours learning everything she thought she could possibly know about him, he’d surprised her yet again. “Then, yeah, I’d love to watch the game with you.”

  “My place or yours?” he asked.

  Anne thought it over. There were a million reasons why his place was the better choice, but the one that made her decision for her was much more elemental.

  “Yours,” she said.

  He did, after all, keep his television in the bedroom.

  On the weekends, Anne hated to worry about the time. Watches and clocks seemed antithetical to the act of relaxation. During workdays, she kept a constant eye on the hours and minutes while she made appointments, attended hearings or escaped the wrath of Pamela by arriving early to each and every staff meeting. But aware of (and looking forward to) her scheduled date with Michael to watch the game, she’d spent her Saturday keenly cognizant of her schedule. Forty minutes before tip-off, she dashed into the bathroom to finish getting ready when she realized she was totally out of several essentials—including toilet paper.

  Ugh.

  She’d been meaning to hit a store for days now, but unless she was bargain hunting for fashionable togs, she really hated shopping. The whole act of walking up and down the aisles with a cart, glancing from side to side to determine if there was some unnecessary product not on her list but that she suddenly couldn’t live without, bored her to tears. And yet, what had to be done, had to be done. She grabbed her purse and car keys. She’d reached the door when she realized she’d forgotten the unopened credit card offer she’d been using as a makeshift list. By the time she hit the door to the stairs, she decided to give Michael a quick call. She intended to come and go with as much speed as possible, but with traffic, she couldn’t be sure she’d make it to his place at the prearranged time.

  “Hey, Michael.”

  “Hey,” he replied.

  She loved how his voice seemed to drop an octave whenever she called him on the phone. Not that his natural speaking voice wasn’t a sensual, sexy baritone, but even after a couple of weeks of seeing each other, the surprise of hearing her on the other end of the line evoked a natural response in him that reminded her of their kisses—deep and heavy with anticipation for so much more.

  “I might be late coming over,” she said. “I’ve been putting off a trip to Target for a week now and I’m running out of basics. I’ll come up as soon as I’m back.”

  “Have you left yet?” he asked.

  She’d just reached the lobby. She gave the couple from 4-E a wave while they retrieved their mail from the boxes that lined the wall.

  “I’m heading out right now.”

  “Well, hold up and I’ll go with you. I’ve got to pick up a few things myself.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  Anne waited, pacing across the tiled floor and exchanging brief greetings with her neighbors as they came in and out of the building. She hadn’t been looking forward to this excursion and she wasn’t sure Michael’s presence while she loaded up on paper towels and tampons would improve her mood any.

  She’d had a rough week at work. Just yesterday she’d had to resubmit her piece on a flasher stalking elderly women in the parking lot of the popular strip mall for Pamela three times before the irascible editor deemed it “acceptable.”

  Her series on the victim’s advocate group currently raising funds through awareness-building events at local churches had a lot more heart, but with all her other responsibilities at the crime desk, she didn’t expect to polish that article until right before the deadline.

  Increasingly, her work weeks had become frustrating, infuriating, and boring. Except for her trips to the courthouse and the occasional lunch with Kate, she’d been struggling with her job nearly as much as she had when she lived in San Antonio. She’d actually loved her colleagues in Texas, but had never warmed to the social life, feeling isolated by her culture and her desire to marry someone who shared her faith. Back in New York, she had a kicking social life, from her amazing friends to her burgeoning relationship with Michael, but her workdays had become close to torturous. Luckily, she had Michael’s witty e-mails to brighten her lackluster days—and even better, Michael’s company to irradiate her nights.

  But as they were still surfing on the crests of fresh and as-of-yet unexplored attraction, the thrill of catching a glimpse of him while he walked Sirus to the park or chatting on the phone until the wee hours even though they were only one floor away would eventually wear off.

  And she couldn’t think of a single thing that could take the shine off a new relationship faster than a trip to the discount store.

  “Ready?”

  She turned, laughing when she caught sight of him. He was wearing a long sleeved navy T-shirt with a humongous orange Syracuse “S” emblazoned on the front. Taking into consideration their plans for the night, this was not unusual. What struck her as hilarious was that she was wearing exactly the same shirt.

  “You’ve got good taste,” he said, plucking at her sleeve.

  “We’re going to look like dweebs if we go to the store dressed like bookends,” Anne insisted. “Go change.”

  He barked with laughter. “You change. I like my shirt.”

  She groaned with frustration, grabbed Michael by the hand, and dragged him, willingly, out to her car. Scowling at him had the abs
olute opposite effect that it would have had, say, on her brother. Anne had been famous in her youth for her powerfully persuasive dirty looks. Whenever she cast an annoyed glare at Michael, however, his smile only deepened.

  “Did you read what the sports page had to say about Coach Boeheim and his reliance on the McNamara for the offensive game?” he asked as soon as she’d pulled out onto State.

  “The sports writer for the Daily Journal hasn’t seen a live basketball game since Dave Bing played for the Pistons,” Anne replied. “This team has chops. If they can get in the zone, this game’s going to be a blowout and we’ll be going to the championships.”

  Michael shook his head. “I don’t know. In the last game, we were 3–for–10 on free throws in the first half and finished the game twenty points down. That kind of performance isn’t going to get us into the Sweet 16.”

  For the duration of the drive, they talked stats and projections. Anne couldn’t help but appreciate a man who could talk sports to a woman and not assume she couldn’t match his knowledge on the subject. They argued over the coach’s strategy in the last game and the behavior of an opposing point guard after he was fouled by an overzealous Orangeman, but the conversation quickened the drive and made the traffic seem less congested. By the time they entered the store and dislodged a cart from the cage-like train by the front door, they’d moved on to discussing Mike’s projections for tonight’s battle with Notre Dame after giving each other a quick run down of what they each needed from the store.

  Anne left out any details regarding feminine hygiene products.

  “Why don’t we split up? I’ll run over to the pharmacy side while you pick up that present for your niece.”

  “You don’t want to go to the toy section?” he asked with exaggerated shock. “Come on! What’s the point of having nieces and nephews if you can’t use it as an excuse to check out the latest from Hasbro and Mattel?”

  She couldn’t resist. Rolling her eyes, she followed Mike to the back of the store where he pretended to be blinded by the overwhelming wash of pink in the Barbie aisle. He spent an inordinate amount of time scanning the Hot Wheels cars for any he didn’t already have and then dragged her into the Star Wars collection so he could regale her with his best James Earl Jones imitation by repeating, “Luke, I am your father” until her stomach cramped from laughing.